Archive of Our Own

I Swear I Lived

When Caleb Wittebane is five years old, his mother is accused of witchcraft. 

Nothing changes right away. He’s always had to deal with the whispering, so it just being a tad louder than it used to be doesn’t really bother him. He’s always been a somewhat quiet child, after all; his mother never combats the gossip, and so he doesn’t either. 

“No wonder their fathers left,” the villagers say to themselves as he walks by. “If they even left at all. She probably murdered both of them, and if she didn’t, they were right to go.”

Caleb pretends not to hear them. That’s what he’s always done, and he’s gotten better and better at it, even at his young age. He pretends because usually it doesn’t matter; they’re wrong, and he thinks his family is perfect the way it is. Him, his mother, and his little brother. They’re all he needs, and just because there’s been an accusation doesn’t mean anything. 

Until it does. One day, a week or so after his mother is accused, he comes home from school to find the Witch Hunters outside his mother’s house. She’s arguing with them, Philip crying in her arms. 

He… knows what this means. 

His mother hands Caleb baby Philip immediately upon seeing him, and miraculously, Caleb doesn’t drop him. Even more miraculously, Philip quiets; shuts his eyes as if he’s accepted whatever’s about to happen. 

“Mom?” Caleb tries not to let his voice shake. He’s the man of the house, technically—he has to be strong. His arms tremble under the weight of his brother. 

“Take care of him,” she says, leaning down to kiss Caleb’s forehead. “Please take care of him, okay? You’re already such a good big brother, Caleb. You’ll treat him right.”

Caleb can’t bring himself to speak, but he doesn’t cry. He doesn’t cry when she strokes his face, when she strokes Philip’s, or when she whispers, “I love you,” to the both of them. He doesn’t cry when the Witch Hunters take her away, and he doesn’t cry when Philip begins to wail once more. He never sees her again, but that’s nothing he didn’t expect. 

Though he’s not allowed any direct knowledge of the proceedings, he manages to gather bits and pieces of information of her interrogation from some of his neighbors; apparently, she’d confessed after five hours of questioning. He knows the day she’s hanged, because he’s the only one left in the neighborhood. He doesn’t ask how it went. He rocks Philip and pretends he can’t smell smoke in the air. 

The villagers all return in the mid-afternoon. Nothing changes, and life goes on. 

Philip is still awfully small—he’s only just had his third birthday a few weeks ago. Caleb’s never liked holding him before, because he always tugs at Caleb’s forelock, but the pulling of hair keeps him awake and upright. Caleb looks at his little brother and thinks, It’s okay, because I still have a purpose. 

The village takes care of them well enough. Thanks to kind neighbors, they never go hungry, and they’re able to continue to live in the house his mother had chosen. The other kids at school don’t really talk to them, but that’s okay. Philip is all the company Caleb needs. He’s Philip’s protector, but Philip’s the reason he stays sane, he thinks. 

At least neither of them are ever lonely. 

—0—

When Caleb is seven years old, Philip asks about their mother for the first time. 

They’ve had a peaceful day inside; it’s a bit too cold to go and play in the woods, and Caleb should start seeing what they can have for dinner, but he’s decided that there’s some time for him to carve first. It’s something he’s discovered he has a talent for; he’s even considering going into a carpenter’s profession when he gets older. They can’t be living off the village’s good graces forever, after all. 

He’s currently making a bear for Philip to put on his bedside table. He wants him to feel safe, and when he’d asked, Philip had told him he thinks of bears as particularly noble. Philip is going through today’s schoolwork. 

“What do you want me to make?” Caleb asks a few minutes later. “Flapjacks? Or would you rather have asparagus?”

Philip considers it for a moment — he’s always doing that, treating every question with the same sincerity like there’s always a punishable answer — and then says, “Flapjacks.” 

The single-worded answer is somewhat concerning. Philip likes to talk a lot, but he’s been quiet all day—dangerous. Caleb never knows exactly how to handle him when he’s being quiet. He’s quiet all through dinner, too, so Caleb is as well. Philip’s stewing on something, and Caleb won’t pry until he’s ready. 

Then, after having cleaned his plate, Philip finally asks. “...Our mother was a witch, wasn’t she?”

Caleb’s tongue feels like sandpaper, having not expected that. He doesn’t know how much Philip remembers of their mother—doesn’t know if he remembers her at all. If Philip’s heard some of the kids at school talking about her… Caleb doesn’t mind gossip about whoever their father had been, but mother was—kind. He thinks. He doesn’t like to think about her at all, really. 

“Yeah,” he says finally. “She was tried and hanged when you were really little.” 

Philip’s mouth hangs open at that, making him look even younger than he is. “She deserved it?” 

Caleb tries not to ever lie to his brother. “I don't know,” he admits quietly, glancing around to make sure no one is near their front door. “But I didn’t think anything was wrong with her. U-Until the Witch Hunters came to take her away.”

“But—Witch Hunters are always right,” Philip says, eyes wide. “Because they keep us all safe, right?” 

Caleb supposes that’s a good point. Witch Hunters do keep them all safe, and they’re directed specifically by God, so they have to be right. “Yeah. They must be, then.” He reaches out to ruffle Philip’s hair, if only to make him laugh. It works. “I must’ve been too young to realize the evil parts of her, I guess.” 

“Witches are evil, though,” Philip insists. “Everyone says so. Mom must have been evil too.”

“You sound like you’re planning on becoming a Witch Hunter one day,” Caleb teases him lightly, forcing a smile to his face. 

This time Philip sets his jaw, pulling away when Caleb tries to pat his head again. “So what if I am? It’s a more than honorable profession! Someone has to keep everyone safe, and why not me?”

…Ah. “That’s very admirable of you,” Caleb says around the new lump in his throat—fear? He’s not sure. “I know for sure that I’m not brave enough to be one of those guys.” He does hate witches. One way or another, witches took his mother away from him, and he’ll always hate them for that. But to accuse one, potentially fight one…? His stomach twists at the very idea. 

“Can we go to the next witch execution?” Philip asks. “I want to see what happens when one dies.”

Caleb… thinks he does, too. Being witches, surely it’s not like when a real human dies, right? And witches can never go to Heaven, either. “Sure,” he says. “If you promise to stay beside me, okay? There’ll be a crowd, and I don’t want you to be trampled.”

Philip nods seriously. “I understand.”

Ater, Caleb thinks that’s the end of it, but he’s wrong. Together they clear the dishes away and wash them. They’ll use the same dishes for tomorrow’s breakfast, if there’s enough leftover corn to eat, that is. Caleb will let Philip have it if there’s not enough for both of them. The villagers don’t let them starve, but sometimes they’re forgotten about—Caleb needs to go foraging soon, is all. 

Once they’re done with that, they settle into their nighttime activities; Caleb sits himself down in front of the hearth and picks up his carving knife. “I’m almost done, by the way,” he says, catching Philip’s attention from his Latin book.  “With your bear. I’ll have it for you when you go to bed tonight.”

Philip doesn’t speak, but he gets to his feet and comes closer, slowly reaching out and taking the half-finished carving out of Caleb’s hands. “I changed my mind about what I want,” he says, handing him a new, untouched plank of wood.  “Will you make me a mask I can wear instead? With horns?”

Caleb doesn’t understand. “Why do you want that?” he asks, chuckling. “I thought you wanted the bear to protect you while you sleep.”

“The mask will do the same,” Philip tells him, tilting his head. His eyes are so blue and innocent—just like their mother’s had been. Caleb assumes he inherited his own eye color from his father; muddy brownish-red is so much less striking. 

“How?” Caleb asks again, when it doesn’t seem like he’s going to elaborate.    

Philip meets his eyes, but seems to stare right through him, fixated on something far away instead. “That’s the last face I want witches to see before they die.” 

…Ah. Caleb considers the plank of wood. “Okay,” he agrees after a moment. “Talk to me when I work?” 

A few weeks later, like he said he would, Caleb takes Philip to a witch’s execution. Caleb cheers with the rest of the crowd when the stool is kicked away; beside him, Philip screeches his lungs out, wearing his new Witch Hunter Helmet mask over his face. It’s one of the finest pieces of wood Caleb’s ever shaped, if he does say so himself. 

Though it takes time, the witch goes to hell without a single word of protest. The crowd roars. Philip roars back in response, waving around his wooden sword, and Caleb joins in as well. Philip grins so fierce and widely that his teeth show even around the mask.

Death, Caleb learns, rather disappointedly, looks no different on a witch than it does a human. 

—0—

When Caleb is nine years old, he meets a girl with pointed ears. 

He first sees her from a distance; he’s walking back from school, Philip’s hand in his. The road home borders the deep woods that circle their village; the woods he and Philip go to play in on Saturdays. The girl is behind the first layer of trees, but he can see her enough to know that she’s around his age. She’s peering out at the road, he thinks, but seems to accidentally meet his gaze.

Are her eyes gold? He can’t be sure, because she’s gone almost immediately, vanishing into the forest. 

Caleb doesn’t say anything, but those eyes stick in his mind the entire walk home. Soon enough, Philip goes down for his usual afternoon nap, and Caleb, after agonizing over the decision for a few minutes, leaves Philip alone for the first time. She’d been young. She shouldn’t be in the woods alone, it’s dangerous. 

He makes his way back to the stretch of road he’d first seen her in and then ventures into the depths of the woods. He’s not frightened; he’s known this forest like the back of his hand ever since he was younger than Philip, and anything big enough to harm him has long since been hunted. He walks silently alongside the road, careful to keep his ears pricked so he won’t miss her. 

A snap echoes behind him. He spins around, and—

There she is. 

“Hi,” he says breathlessly. He’s never seen a girl like this—pointy ears notwithstanding, he’s never seen any girl wear pants. Her hair is wild and free; her eyes do gleam gold, a brother color than he’s never seen on anyone before ever. She’s got some sort of painted key on a string around her neck, and she’s holding a painted walking stick with what looks like an incredibly realistic wooden bluejay attached to the front of it. 

She blinks at him, looking about just as fascinated with him as he is with her. “Hi.”

“I’ve—never seen you before,” he blurts, forgetting his manners. “Are you new to Hartford? I can walk you home, if you’d like.” He’s always been told that it’s not safe for girls to walk around alone. That’s how they’re corrupted, he knows. That’s how the devil finds them. 

But she shakes her head. “I’m just passing through, I think. And thank you, but I know my way home.” She gives him another look, lingering on his ears for longer than he thinks is necessary, considering she’s the one with the strange-looking ones. “I should go.” 

“W-Wait! Who are you?” he asks, eyes wide. “I’m Caleb Wittebane. I can show you around if you want?” 

She falters for a moment, shifting her stick — is it a staff of some sort? — from one hand to another. “I probably shouldn’t. My parents say it’s dangerous for me to go into town.” 

“That’s okay!” Caleb insists. “I can show you around the woods instead! I-If you don’t have to go now, that is,” he adds hurriedly, abruptly realizing how rude he may be coming off. “Whatever you’d like, Miss.”

“Miss?” She raises an eyebrow. “My name’s Veralyn.”

“Veralyn..?"

“Veralyn Clawthorne.” 

It’s a beautiful name, he thinks. It’s different, just like the rest of her, and he’s fascinated. “That’s—that’s a really cool name, Veralyn,” he tells her, trying desperately not to trip over his tongue. “Um. Where do you live?” 

She tilts her head, frowning slightly. “Uh… far away? Way farther than you’ve ever been, certainly. Across the non-boiling sea…?”

He chuckles. “You talk kind of funny, though you speak English well.” But it makes sense, if she’s from across the ocean. He wonders why she’s visiting, when she’s going to leave. Straightening up, he offers his arm like any gentleman would. “Do you still want me to show you around?” 

This time, her hesitation only lasts a second; she folds her arm into his and steps closer.“As long as we don’t go in the village.” 

He’ll take it. 

Over the course of a couple hours, he walks her in a-near complete circle around the village, shows her his favorite spots. The cave to the north, the waterfall to the east. She seems fascinated with some of the simplest things, such as chipmunks and birdhouses, and he finds it endearing. She must live in a very strange place, he thinks. 

In return, as they walk, she tells him a bit about herself. Her parents aren’t very strict—they make sure she goes to school every day, but she’s mostly left alone on her own. She has many friends, but none that she’s extremely close to. She’s ten years old, older than him by a few months.

He doesn’t ask about her ears—yet. He tries not to be rude.

At some point she hands him her staff in order to use both hands in climbing up a particularly flat-topped boulder, and he takes the opportunity to admire the craftsmanship of the bluejay. It’s a beautiful piece of art, perfect down the smallest of details, and his fingers itch to try one himself. Maybe he will, and they can compare if he ever sees her again.

Finally, though, they find themselves back where they met. Veralyn smiles at him and says, “Well. I’d better go home. My parents will be looking for me.”

He should go back as well. Philip won’t know what to do if he wakes up and Caleb’s not at home, and he’s been gone long enough already. 

“Will you be back one day?” he asks. The walk had only cemented his fascination; Veralyn takes every movement with a sense of purpose he’s never seen before, least of all on himself, and her air of strangeness only makes her more interesting to him. He wants to know more. 

She blinks at him, fidgeting with her hands. “I hope so, but I’m not sure when. If I do, will I be able to see you again?” she adds, turning her face away. “It’s been fun.” 

His ears feel hot. “Of course! I’ll be around, either in school or at home. My brother’s my only family, so you’re welcome to come around any time.”

“I don’t think I’m comfortable with meeting your brother yet,” she says quietly. “Your village is… strange to me. I’d like to see only you again, though, if that’s okay with you.” 

That’s more than okay with him. Caleb nods enthusiastically, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Of course!” he says again, feeling a burst of warmth in his chest. “Just leave me a sign or something on that same road you first saw me on, and I’ll come and find you as soon as I can.”

Veralyn nods, committing it to memory. “I’ll remember that.” 

“And–one more thing,” Caleb blurts, because he’s still curious. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” 

She tilts her head. “What is it?” 

“Ah. Your — um — your ears,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound impolite. “Are—were you born with them like that?”

Veralyn’s mouth curls. “Where I come from, pointy ears are normal! You’re the one who looks odd to me.” She takes a glance behind her, and Caleb realizes again how late it’s gotten. Philip will be waking up soon, and he needs to get started on dinner. “I’ll see you later, then?” Veralyn’s eyes are shining.

Caleb’s mouth is dry. “Yeah,” he croaks, flushing down to his neck. “I’ll—I’ll see you.”

Then, with one last wave, she’s gone, disappearing into the woods like God himself had reached down and plucked her out of the Earth, designating her for Heaven decades before her time. If anyone was as beautiful as to deserve that… He thinks she could be the girl people write sonnets about, if she’d allow them. He wonders if she’d let him try. 

Caleb goes back home, somewhat dazed. When Philip wakes up from his nap a half-hour or so later, Caleb acts as if he’d never left and begins to make dinner for the two of them. No harm done. 

It’s the first thing he ever keeps from Philip. 

(Later that night, after they’ve eaten dinner and Philip’s already gone to bed, he pushes aside all his already half-finished carvings and begins to work on something new. A cardinal, he thinks. To match.)

…

Veralyn keeps coming back. 

Never for very long, and not very often, either; only about once or twice a month. She begins leaving a bluejay’s feather on a stone near the road he and Philip use to walk home after school. He checks the rock every single day. Most days there’s nothing, and he returns home with Philip. Sometimes, though, the feather will be there, and he’ll make up some excuse to go back out as soon as he’s gotten Philip into the house.

He’ll say he needs to pick up some more grain, that he’d agreed to help make another family’s roof. He’ll always do the things he says, just maybe… not as long as Philip thinks. Technically not lies, though. On the days that Veralyn is there, Caleb spends the day running through the woods with her, teaching her games and learning some of her own. Every time, Caleb offers to walk her home. Every time, she refuses. 

Veralyn says he’s her best friend. He thinks she’s his only friend, if Philip doesn’t count, and he tells her that, too. 

Three months after meeting her, Caleb presents her with the cardinal carving. Usually it wouldn’t have taken him so long, but this had been an important carving; he’d thrown out four separate previous attempts, and he’d worked particularly slowly on this last one, spending most of his time carving it outside trying to catch a glimpse of the actual birds in order to get the design as accurate as he could. He’s proud of it, though. 

The cardinal is painted bright red, of course, with a slightly darker color for the tips of its wings and a black diamond covering its face and chest to give it depth. Caleb had colored the eyes a deep brown, making them pop against the eye-whites. Overall, it may be the most beautiful carving he’s ever made.

He hands it to her and pretends his hands aren’t shaking. “T-This is for you,” he says, wiping his palms against his pants. “To match your bluejay. The carving on that is so well done, I wanted to see if I could match it.”

Veralyn gently takes the cardinal from him. “Did you make this yourself?” Her voice is quiet as she turns the carving upside-down in her hands, looking at every last detail. Caleb hopes he hasn’t accidentally left a spot blank or something.

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “It keeps my hands busy and I saw the bluejay as a bit of a challenge, I suppose.” 

“This is beautiful,” Veralyn breathes. Caleb’s ears redden. She looks back up, then; meets his gaze with wide golden eyes. “This is for me?” 

“Uh. Yeah!” he says again, folding his arms behind his back. “I made it for you, that is. Yeah. I just thought—you can keep it near where you put your walking stick, if you want. So the cardinal and the bluejay can become friends.” 

With that, she grins at him, and he echoes her smile because he has to, because nothing in the world could stop him from smiling back. “I love it,” she says, quietly. “I love it. I love it.”

—0—

When Caleb is fourteen years old, he comes to the realization that he may be falling in love. 

Years have come and gone, and Caleb’s content with his life for the most part. He’s still somewhat of a loner in Hartford, but Philip’s finally able to keep some friends from school, and though it hurts, he doesn’t need Caleb as much as he used to. Philip begins to come and go at odd times of the day, but that’s okay, too, as long as he’s always back in time for dinner. Caleb’s not his parent, and he’s never tried to take over that role, so he won’t start now. 

It’s not like Veralyn’s his first-ever crush or anything; he’s had fleeting phases of finding other people his age attractive, and he’s always had an eye for short hair, but this is—different. He’s never met anyone like her before. 

He’s never felt anything like he feels for her before, either. 

Caleb feels like he can actually talk to, and she’ll listen to what he has to say. He knows he’s the less-intelligent brother, he’s always known that, but he still likes being heard. With Veralyn, he actually wants things. He’s never really wanted before. He wants to hold her hand, he thinks. That would be nice. He wants to meet her family and thank them for allowing him to meet her. He wants to know more about her. 

He… doesn’t know what to do. 

So he won’t do anything at all. He’s okay with getting to know her at a snail’s pace, like he’s been already been doing. She has her reasons, he’s sure. He has no real pressure to marry, anyways, so it’s fine, he can take his time. 

And if she ends up not returning his feelings… that’s okay too. 

—0—

When Caleb is sixteen years old, he learns what Veralyn is. 

Honestly, he doesn’t mean to find out the way he does. He’d been happy with not knowing, mostly, just having figured that her parents were more strict than she lets on. He’s always assumed that she’ll open up more one day, and he’s been content to wait until that day came. 

But inadvertently, he triggers it far too early. 

It’s pure (un)lucky fate that leads him into the woods today; Philip’s been gone since morning, and Caleb had quickly grown sick of sitting inside carving, so he ventures into the forest—just to walk, really, and for a while, it’s just that. Summer is quickly approaching, but it’s not too hot yet, and the birds are all chirping in the trees. Breathing in deeply, Caleb allows the birdsong to soften the tension in his shoulders as he walks. 

Then he happens to come across the strangest thing he’s ever seen, pressed so cleanly between two trees that he nearly misses it. 

A door, floating in midair. 

Caleb pulls up short. He rubs at his eyes just in case, but the door’s still there when he looks again. What…? 

The craftsmanship is beautiful; the door is a brilliant shade of mahogany with deep symmetrical markings carved into its front and a massive golden eye placed just above the similarly-colored keyhole and doorknob. 

Before he can decide to do anything, the door swings open abruptly. Caleb freezes. 

From his spot, he can see where the door is being opened from. Such a horrifying place that it could only be the devil’s hell itself; a blood red sky, the smell of rotting flesh, the roars of what were surely demons on their way to torment the Godly men. Caleb feels his entire body chill with just the barest glance.  

Then Veralyn steps out of the doorway, closing it behind her. 

No. 

Caleb watches with horror as it somehow folds into itself, turning into a more briefcase-looking thing. Placing it on the forest floor, Veralyn leans down and painstakingly covers it in moss and dead branches, ensuring that it wouldn’t be found by anyone not looking. How many times had they together come near this exact place? How many times had he just missed it?

Against his will, a strangled sound rips its way out of Caleb’s throat. Veralyn spins around. 

Her pointy ears. He’s such an idiot. 

“Caleb!” Fear chokes her voice, golden eyes widening. She holds up her arms, staff clattering to the ground. A staff —a wand, more likely. No wonder the bluejay is so realistic; Caleb’s always been taught to avoid familiars, and yet— “This—this isn’t what it looks like.”

He’s going to die. She’s probably been trying to recruit him over all these years, but now he’s seen her secrets and he’s going to die. 

“W-Who are you?” he asks, taking a trembling step back. He nearly trips, and when he takes another step, his back connects with a tree. “What— where was that?!”

“Caleb,” she says hesitantly, “listen to me.”

“You’re a witch,” he rasps, feeling as if his throat was closing up. “You—this whole time you’ve lied to me!” She stretches out her hand, but he flinches away. He’s so far from the village right now. If she’s been planning to kill him, now would be ample time. His heart pounds in his chest. “What atrocities have you been planning?”

“Nothing!” Veralyn insists. “Please, Caleb, believe me, I never meant to hurt you!”

She’s lying. She’s always been lying. She’s a—

“You’re a witch!” he cries again, “a-aren’t you? I saw that place you’re from! Your ears—you’re a witch and you’ve been planning to recruit me into your cult!” He stops short, a horrible thought flashing through his mind. “Were you waiting to corrupt my brother, too? If you ever touch him–!”

“I wasn’t!” Veralyn interrupts him this time. “I swear, I would never hurt you in a million years! Witches aren’t inherently harmful like you think — I mean, we can be, but most of us aren’t—”

WHAT?

A sudden chirp distracts them both; the bluejay on top of Veralyn’s wand is moving, stretching its wings and looking — in an almost accusatory way — at her. Veralyn gasps, dropping to her knees to stroke its head. “I know, I’m so sorry for dropping you, I just—”

Caleb can’t listen to any more of this. He seizes his chance. Finds his legs, turns his back on her, and—

Runs.

—0—

When Caleb is fifteen years old, he goes to church with more vigor than he’s ever had in his whole life. He has to—he has to atone, to be forgiven for his sins more than ever before. He prays before every meal, before he goes to bed at night. He prays for forgiveness; he was weak, and he’d nearly fallen under a witch’s spell—if he hadn’t altogether.

He prays because he still misses her, and if he still misses her, then his sin is only dragging on.

For a little while, that’s just his life; he goes to every witch execution that’s held (though there’s fewer, nowadays) and watches, determined never again to come that close to hell. He goes to church. He throws away dozens of ruined carvings. He prays. 

He... exists. 

One day, three months after he found out what Veralyn was, he and Philip find a bluejay roosting casually outside on their front step. Surprisingly (or maybe not), it doesn’t fly away when they near it; instead, it takes flight for only a second in order to land directly on Caleb’s left shoulder. He goes cold. 

Philip raises his eyebrows, looking mildly interested. “You’ve made a friend, brother,” he observes dully. 

“It—it seems I have,” Caleb rasps, tripping over his own tongue. He tries to shake the bluejay off, but it only chirps at him and moves to his right shoulder instead. “Uh. You can fly away now, bird.” 

The bird does not, in fact, fly away. Instead, it tilts its head at Caleb; chirps rather pointedly once more. 

“Well, just don’t bring it inside the house,” Philip says with a shrug, opening the door and disappearing inside. 

Caleb glares at the bird. I know what you are, he thinks. Go away. I don’t want to see her. He refuses to speak to it aloud—doing so would likely get him caught and put in the stocks, but as he shakes the thing off one last time and opens the door for himself, he feels—

He feels nothing. 

(...He wishes.)

The next morning, the bluejay is back. This time, Caleb ignores it completely and storms back inside. “Looks like rain,” he says when Philip raises an eyebrow at his quick turnaround. 

It’s fine, he’ll just stay inside for the day. Except the bluejay keeps coming back. Every day, again and again, the bluejay is there, waiting for him on the steps. Philip must be growing suspicious by now — suspicious of what he doesn’t know, but nothing good — and Caleb is—frustrated. 

“Fine!” he snaps when he finds the bird on his steps again for the fifteenth day in a row. “Fine, fine. I’ll follow you. But then leave me alone.” 

The bluejay only chirps at him, once, as if saying, follow. 

Because he’s clearly lost his mind, Caleb does. 

The bluejay, of course, leads him to Veralyn at their old spot, and he’s not surprised, but the sight of her still makes his heart thud deep in his chest. She’s as beautiful as ever, but she looks tired, with pronounced bags under her (still so golden) eyes and leaves crumpled in her hair. Overall, she just seems… dull. Not nearly as bright as she used to be. 

“What do you want,” he says coldly, coming to a halt a safe distance away.  

She looks surprised to see him. “Caleb,” she says. 

“I want nothing more to do with you,” he tells her over the lump in his throat. “You lied to me. You’re a witch. My kind hunts yours, because you’re agents of the devil. Leave me alone.”

“Caleb, please.” She gets to her feet, slowly, clearly trying not to spook him. “Listen for just one minute. I know you have some idea in your head of what a witch is, but I promise I’m not like that.” When he doesn’t reply quickly, she seizes her chance. “Just let me show you. Come with me to my home and I can prove it.”

He recoils immediately, sputtering with fear. “What—so you can drag me into hell?”

“It’s not like how you’re imagining it, please believe me ,” she insists, voice cracking. “Just come with me for an hour—a half hour! I’ll show you my home, my family. I’ll do anything.”

“What happens after that?” Caleb asks warily. 

Her gorgeous eyes turn downcast. “After that, you can forget about me, if you want. I’d understand, and I promise I’ll leave you and your home alone.” 

For a moment he hesitates. Takes a deep breath. “So—how does your witchcraft work, exactly?” Caleb asks after a long pause, looking away from her and focusing on the trees around them. “Do you use your wand, or—?”

“...I do sometimes,” Veralyn replies slowly, studying his face. “Our staffs themselves are powerful, yes, but I have magic on my own, as well. Look—” reaching out with her left hand, she draws a glowing golden circle in the air. “This is a spell circle. Not all spells require them, but a lot of them do, and that’s the way I’m able to cast without my palisman.”

He frowns. “Palisman…?”

“My bluejay,” she says, and on her shoulder, the bird chirps. “Her name is Jayler. I carved her from wood with special properties, which is why she’s bonded with me. She has magic on her own and lets me use it when we’re together.”

“Oh,” he says. 

“Yeah,” she says. Then, with a shy twist to her mouth, she gestures towards the closed door. “So… do you want to see?”

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t want to. 

(But he does.)

He goes through the portal, and—it’s still terrifying. He’d been right on all accounts; the sky is red, the air does smell rank, and it’s the loudest place he’s ever been in. He takes one step into Veralyn’s realm and immediately wants to turn around and run back to his little house with Philip, hide under the covers of his bed like he used to do when his mother was alive. But he stands tall, takes a few deep breaths, and then turns to Veralyn.

“Okay,” he says calmly. “I’m here. Show me.” 

Veralyn gives him a small, weak smile. 

She shows him everything. The Boiling Isles, Bonesborough, her family’s house. He meets her kind-faced father, her terrifyingly-built mother, her clumsy-yet-endearing older sister. Veralyn introduces him as The human I’ve been telling you about, and he tries not to revel in the fact that she’s talked about him with her family. The Demon Realm — apparently that is what it’s called — is still terrifying, but—less so, with Veralyn at his side. He… he doesn’t handle it very well. He doesn’t know how to handle it. 

Because it’s just that, just a realm like his own, full of people and families and schools and houses, just like Hartford. In a way, Bonesborough is almost charming; sure, it’s a lot rougher than Caleb is used to, but he thinks he can understand the appeal of it. 

But it hurts his head, trying to make sense of it all. 

Witches aren’t evil. But they are, he’s known they were since he can remember knowing anything. But they aren’t. They’re just people, maybe, who are capable of magic. Spell circles. Bile sacs. No devil hellbent on the destruction of humanity, at least not in the witches’ actions. 

He doesn’t handle that realization very well, either. 

“Witches… aren’t evil?” Caleb mumbles. His head is spinning, trying to make sense of everything he’d seen and experienced. The Ministers had never given him advice on what to do when hell begins to seem less horrible. “So… are our witches just people who’ve learned magic in your world, then?” Had his mother known?

“Caleb,” Veralyn says hesitantly, “…humans can’t be witches at all. Whatever your people are calling witchcraft… they’re wrong.”

…Oh.

He hadn’t cried for his mother when she was taken away. He’d had to be strong, and he’d believed that whatever she was, she’d deserved it. That it was a good thing, actually, getting himself and Philip away from her. He hadn’t cried. 

He cries for her now. 

Caleb sobs into Veralyn’s shoulder like his mother’s only just died that day. Kindly, she doesn’t mock him, though he probably deserves it, being as weak as he is. Instead, though, she clutches him tighter, rubs his back when he begins to hiccup. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he croaks into her neck, over and over again. He doesn’t know who he’s apologizing to—his mother for not mourning her for so long or Veralyn for getting her shirt wet, but he has to say it. 

“None of this is your fault, darling,” Veralyn murmurs, stroking a hand through his hair and smoothing his tangles. “You’re not to blame for anything, you hear me?”

He hears, but he doesn’t accept her reassurance. He should have been smarter, been quicker in realizing that he’d been wrong. He should’ve known, and he shouldn’t have taught Philip the same thing. God, Philip… he’s done so much damage to him, hasn’t he? He needs to try and fix that. He can’t have his brother end up like him. 

“...Do you want this back?” Veralyn asks later when he’s about to leave, pulling something out of her pocket. It’s the same cardinal he’d carved for her all those years ago—she’d kept it.

She holds it out to him, but he doesn’t take it. “I made it to you to keep,” he says, “although now that I know your bluejay moves, my cardinal’s a bit underwhelming, isn’t he?”

“Never,” Veralyn says fiercely, now clutching it to her chest. “It’s one of my most prized possessions.” She averts her eyes. “I—I care for you, y’know? A lot. You’re my best friend, and I don’t want to lose you.”

He lets out a sigh. “Thank you for showing me this, I mean it. I— ” his jaw trembles. “I need to—think.” 

She nods. “Of course, of course. Take all the time you need.” Hesitating, she adds, “Here, take this,” clearing her throat, she hands him a single bluejay’s feather. “When—if you ever decide you want me to return, just leave this on the same spot I always did. Caleb,” she says, and he looks at her. “It’s okay if that day never comes.”

Her smile is sad, but there’s no lie in her eyes. 

He takes the feather hesitantly; nonexistent lightning crackles when his fingers brush hers, but neither of them comment on it. “Thanks,” he says. “I’ll, uh. I’ll go now.”

“Bye, Caleb,” Veralyn says. 

He steps through the portal, flashing her one last look. “Bye, Veralyn.”

Then he’s back home, safe again in the cover of real human trees. He watches as the door folds into itself, disappearing entirely. Taking a deep breath, Caleb looks down at the feather, twirling it around his fingers. 

He manages a smile. 

—0—

When Caleb is seventeen years old, he tells Veralyn how he feels about her. 

He and Philip still seem to be drifting apart, but Veralyn seems to be able to sneak away to the Human Realm more and more often, and he can’t exactly be mad about it. She lets him join her at her home more now, too, and they spend hours trekking through the streets of Bonesborough. Caleb wears a hat to hide his ears just in case, but he finds that the Demon Realm is surprisingly charming at times. There are bad people there, of course, but he learns that for the most part, the vast majority are just people. 

And the more time he spends with Veralyn, the harder he falls. 

He tries his absolute hardest to be a gentleman about it, to court her properly. He may have decided that he wasn’t going to live by a sizable chunk of his culture, but he believes wholeheartedly that (some) of his ideas on courtships are valid and should be used. So he does—he brings her flowers, writes her letters to read when she’s in the Demon Realm. He carves her whatever she asks, though she tells him that she’ll always treasure the cardinal the most. 

She says he’s cute. 

(He wonders if she may feel the same. Hopes.)

Officially, they begin their legitimate courtship when he’s eighteen. He asks her family for permission first, of course; they all say that it’s up to her, which feels—right. He asks Veralyn for permission to court her the very same night. For some unfathomable reason, she says yes. 

Caleb doesn’t care if humans and witches aren’t supposed to meet. He loves her. 

—0—

When Caleb is nineteen, he helps found a new village. 

It’s Philip’s idea. He comes to Caleb one day, says, “I have people that will follow us, and I think we need a change of scenery,” and Caleb—agrees. He’s been itching to get out of Hartford for years, probably. No one likes him here, and though he’s never been particularly resentful about that, it does get a little tiring over time. 

“Okay,” he says. “What’s your plan?”

Because Philip always has a plan. And he does; apparently, he’s been scoping out some unclaimed land for some time now, wanting to make his mark on the world.

Caleb tells Veralyn about it as soon as he can, and she doesn’t seem concerned. “I’ll be able to link the door up to wherever you go, don’t worry,” she tells him. “Just let me know what day you’ll be moving and I’ll follow you when it’s safe.”

Philip leads him to his spot just a few days after, allowing Caleb to survey where exactly he’s going to be living soon. In all, it’s a good spot; not horribly far away from Hartford, but far enough to be its own thing and not just an extension. Philip’s already contracted people to build houses and wells. This could happen. 

“What do you want to call it?” Caleb asks. He’ll leave it up to Philip. Moving was his idea, after all, and Caleb’s sure that despite how young he is, he’ll be a wise governor to the people that choose to follow them here. 

Philip tosses him a look that shines. “Gravesfield,” he says immediately, puffing out his chest and surveying the land once more. “I’ve been thinking about it since we set out. I want to call it Gravesfield.”

Of course he does. “Isn’t that a bit bleak?” Caleb teases. “Don’t you want to call it something a little more uplifting?”

This time his brother frowns. “I don’t see it in that way. I see it as a respectful name—graves are simply gateways to humanity’s past. We must always remember those who died to bring us here, yes? Who died to protect us, too.” His jaw twitches. 

“Sure then,” Caleb agrees easily. “Gravesfield it is.” Trying to bring back a lighter atmosphere, he adds, “you know, that means everyone will expect a beautiful graveyard here.” 

Philip doesn’t laugh, but the edge of his mouth curls upwards. “I’ll be the lead Witch Hunter here, so don’t worry about drawing up plans for a graveyard just yet. It won’t be necessary.”

…Ah. 

Even though the afternoon sun has been beating against his back for hours, Caleb still feels cold. “Philip,” he says, trying not to let his voice tremble. “You—you know that’s about over, right? It’s been slowing down for years. Surely the witches have been caught by now.”

Philip snorts. “That’s just what they want you to think, brother. How about you let me, an actual Witch Hunter, decide when they’re all gone. Unless you want to join the brigade as well?” 

“No, I don’t,” Caleb says firmly, starting to get frustrated. “I—I’m just trying to tell you that I don’t think you should waste your life on that sort of thing, y’know? It’s a noble profession, yes, but isn’t the end-goal a world where we don’t need people for that anymore?”

“Not until they’re all dead,” Philip growls. “I’d have thought you’d feel the same way. You remember what witchcraft did to our mother, even if I don’t. She was evil, and we were left alone because of it.” He straightens his shoulders, patting the old Witch Hunter Helmet that Caleb had made for him all those years ago, still clipped to his belt. “I want to make sure no more families have to go through that.”

Shaking his head, Caleb bites his tongue. “What if—” he stops abruptly, having not thought this through. But Philip hadn’t missed his slip. 

“What if what,” he says, eyeing him dangerously. 

“What if. Our mother wasn’t evil?” Caleb asks, avoiding his gaze. “I mean, I don’t—I don’t remember anything wrong with her, that is. She always seemed normal to me, just like any other mother.” 

“She was a witch,” Philip snarls. “Of course she was evil. You were just too young to realize it then. Brother,” he says, and his tone, suddenly so quiet, makes Caleb look back at him. Philip looks so young, then, so open and honest. “I do not blame you for feeling this way. You were so young. But you don’t understand how they’re capable of warping people’s minds.” He sighs, reaching over to grasp Caleb’s shoulder tightly. “It’s okay, brother.”

Is it? Caleb doesn’t know. But he smiles anyway, patting the back of Philip’s hand. “You may be right,” he says, unwilling to back down completely. Philip must notice, but he doesn’t push it. “Hey,” Caleb adds, “are you secretly conferring with the pastors when I’m not looking? That sounded like something you could preach.”

“No. But if we’re speaking of secrets, I know you’ve met someone,” Philip says without missing a beat. Caleb stiffens. “A woman, I mean. I know you’ve been sneaking off to meet her nearly every other night.” He doesn’t look angry, but he’s being quiet. Dangerous . “When do I get to meet her? Is she joining us here in Gravesfield?” 

Keeping something from Philip is one thing, but Caleb’s never once lied to his face. Slowly, he replies, “Uh. Hopefully soon—” Philip raises his eyebrows at the lack of denial. “—But she’s… uncomfortable around most people, so she’s not moving here with us yet, no.”

“I see. Have you proposed yet, or…?”

Caleb’s ears feel hot. “Philip.”

“What?” Philip’s expression is a cool mask of nothingness—with perhaps just a pinch of amusement underneath as he folds his arms behind his back. “I assume that’s where you’re headed. Or am I to assume instead that you’re leading this poor young woman on, dear brother? That’s certainly not very gentlemanly of you.”

“I’m not—” Caleb sighs. “This is why I didn’t tell you,” he jokes, startling a short laugh out of his brother. “I’m just taking it slow, okay? I promise I’ll introduce you as soon as she’s comfortable with it. What about you?” he asks, not-so-subtly trying to veer the subject away from Veralyn. “Any women catching your eye? Plenty of them would say yes on the spot, I think.” 

Philip’s face twitches—he’s always liked compliments. “Yes, I’m sure they would,” he says smoothly, “but unfortunately for them, I’ve been focused on more important things.” His eyes gleam with something Caleb doesn’t care to name—nothing good. “You worry about love, brother,” says Philip. “And I’ll worry about love’s protection.”

—0—

When Caleb’s twenty-one, Philip goes into the Demon Realm. 

He doesn’t know why. He hadn’t even known Philip knew about the door. He has no idea what Philip knows, what Philip’s seen. Has he seen Caleb sneaking off? How long has he known? Did he know what awaited him through the Portal Door, or had he just been curious? Has he seen Veralyn? 

Does he know Caleb’s in love with her? That he’s loved her for years now? 

He can’t have gone anywhere else. Caleb returns from the Boiling Isles one day to find one of Philip’s books — one of the ones he’s writing — on the ground outside the portal door. Caleb feels his heart drop. Philip could very much be dead right now. The Boiling Isles aren’t as bad as he initially assumed, but he’s almost always had Veralyn at his side, talking him through any cultural misdemeanors and misunderstandings. Philip has none of that, and Philip has no idea about the dangers and wonders of the Demon Realm as a whole.

Caleb—panics. Thankfully, Veralyn doesn’t. 

“We’ll find him,” she reassures him as soon as he’s able to tell her what’s wrong, why he’d returned so quickly. “He can’t have gone far, right?”

She should be right, but. They search the area around where the portal door opens up for hours. There’s no trace of him. They search and they call Philip’s name and they find what looks like his footprints, but they taper off into something indistinguishable almost immediately. 

“Do you want to go back?” Veralyn asks once it starts getting dark. “Keep looking tomorrow?”

Caleb shakes his head desperately. “No, I—I can’t go back without him. No one cares about me in Gravesfield, but they care about him.” He folds his hands into fists. “No, we have to keep looking. I have to find him.”

She nods. “Okay. Okay, then let’s find him.” 

They don’t find him. 

Caleb searches for nearly forty-eight hours straight before Veralyn finally manages to convince him to sleep. She’s been wonderful, truly; he’s tried not to snap, but when he does, she knows not to take it personally, and they both know he’s not really mad at her. If anything, he’s furious with himself. This could have been avoided if he’d just not been such a coward.

—0—

Caleb Wittebane is twenty-four when he marries Veralyn Clawthorne.

He still hasn’t returned to Gravesfield. He still hasn’t found Philip.

He’s almost positive Philip’s dead, but quite some time has passed, and while he’s not made peace with that idea, he’s come close to being resigned to it. He still asks every new demon he meets if they’ve seen a human, but they never have. And as it does, his life has moved on. Against his will, somewhat, but Veralyn tells him that Philip wouldn’t want him to spend the rest of his life grieving. Caleb hopes she’s right. 

When he and Veralyn get married, he decides to change his name to Caleb Clawthorne—he likes the sound of it, and he can’t ever imagine Veralyn not being a Clawthorne herself. To propose, he’d gone all-out; conferred with Veralyn’s father on how to carve a palisman for himself. A cardinal, exactly like the one he’d carved for her years ago. Then, weeks later when he’d finished it, he’d unveiled it to Veralyn with a ring in its beak. 

“A palisman for me, a ring — hopefully — for you,” Caleb says, down on one knee. “A palisman for me because I want to stay here. A ring for you because…” He takes a deep breath. “Will you marry me?”

For some unfathomable reason, she says yes. The cardinal’s name is Flapjack, and he immediately bonds with Jayler and Verayln just as he’d bonded with Caleb (though perhaps not as closely with them). 

It feels almost like a betrayal to consider, but Caleb thinks he could be very happy in the Boiling Isles. 

—0—

Caleb Clawthorne is twenty-five years old when he reunites with Philip. It’s a stroke of (un)lucky fate; Philip happens to stumble across Caleb and Veralyn while they’re on a picnic near the Left Elbow—he stops and stares.

Almost instantly, Caleb tackles him in a hug. 

Caleb is twenty-five when he’s finally, finally able to introduce Philip to Veralyn. He’s twenty-five when he tells his brother that his wife is expecting his child. His child, who will be the first of their kind, being half-human and half-witch. He shows Philip his palisman, tells him he named him Flapjack. Now that Philip’s here, Caleb is entirely content. Philip’s quieter than he remembered him being, but that’s to be expected. He watches Caleb with a haunted expression, so after the fairly aggressive initial hug, Caleb tries his best to be gentler with his brother. 

Philip is invited to join their table by the fire. He sits down. 

Caleb is still twenty-five when his brother tries to kill him, not more than an hour later. The night has taken a turn, gone terribly, terribly wrong. 

Veralyn’s gone at least, thank Titan, having left momentarily to go and get something they’d forgotten at home—an unsubtle way to let them have some time alone. She’d hurried off giggling behind her hand, and now Caleb’s so glad that she’ll be safe, because Philip, having seized his chance, had drawn his knife almost the moment she vanished from sight. 

Caleb hadn’t been expecting it, and blood dripping down from his left ear only proves how nonexistent his guard had been. After all, he’d had no reason to be on guard; Philip is his brother, and yet—

Realistically, Caleb stands no chance against him. He’s well aware. 

Whatever Philip’s been doing in his years on the Boiling Isles, it’s hardened him more than ever; his eyes are terrifyingly ice-cold as he advances, even though the fire they’d set flickers in his gaze. Though he’s sure it’s pointless, Caleb pulls out his own knife anyway. “P-Philip?” 

Flapjack is here, but they still don’t have much practice together. He’s going to die here, and he knows it, struck down by his own brother. Philip is the scorned brother, Cain, and Caleb hadn’t realized it until just now, but his role is of Abel. 

Caleb is twenty-five when he dies. 

He doesn’t see Veralyn return. He doesn’t see her reaction, doesn’t see the way she chases Philip away, the way she burns his heels and singles his jacket on his way out. The way she sobs on Caleb’s still chest. He doesn’t see how a scarred Flapjack flies into the forest, never to be seen again, or the funeral the Clawthorne family holds for him. 

He knows, though. He knows they did, even if he never sees it. 

He never meets his child, but they grow up as a Clawthorne through and through. They don’t talk about their father much, though they live their life hearing stories about him from their family. Caleb’s name is kept secret—private. Intimate.

Despite all that, Caleb thinks he still dies happy. At least he knows. 

—0—

(Caleb’s bones are five years old when Philip takes the first—a femur, a larger one, to ensure the spell will work. Days later, the first Grimwalker claws his way out of the dirt, gasping for air. Philip welcomes him, his new brother; a better version who won’t deviate from the path this time. 

Caleb Clawthorne is five-years dead, and yet, in a way, he lives on once more. )

—0—